Milking It For All It's Worth
by Old Ping Hai
Summary: Sherlock stops by the store to pick up a bottle of milk and goes home with something unexpected.


A birthday gift for CumberMey written in "present" tense. Happy 20th! Even if you are spending it in a war zone.

Thank you to johnsarmylady for helping me keep it sounding British!

Thanks to Atlin Merrick for giving me leave to write something so much like "Well Met." If anyone out there has not read that, why not? Go read it.

I'm pleased to say that this story has now been translated into French by Asyliss. Read it right here on FanFiction: 'Dans la file' is the title!

* * *

_Milking it: taking more time or advantage than you're really due because you can get away with it. __— __Urban Dictionary_

Sherlock is dismayed by the length of the queues snaking out from each of the checkout lanes at the grocery store. All he has is one bottle of milk, but even the "Under 10 Items" line is 15 people deep. And from what he can see (which is a lot, because he is very tall) almost everyone in the so-called express lane has the full complement of 10 items. And some have far more…does no one know how to count anymore?

"I should have asked Molly to get the milk for me," he thinks. He's always had the Barts pathologist wrapped around his little finger — she'll do anything for him. All he has to do is give her a big fake smile, and she lets him sneak away bags of diseased body parts scheduled for incineration! But he knows that she wouldn't have bought the milk until her shift at the morgue ended, and then she'd be simpering and giggling at his flat with the entire evening stretching ahead of them. Unacceptable.

In any case, he's here now and he'll have to get creative if he doesn't want to spend the next half hour standing in queue. He'll just single out someone almost at the cash register, push his way down the line and slip his milk into that person's shopping basket. If he chooses the right person and acts with enough confidence (not a problem for Sherlock Holmes), he can probably carry it off. He's learned over time that his height and his good looks mean he can get away with a lot that other people would not be able to.

He runs a practiced eye over the customer closest to the head of the queue in each lane.

Lane 1: The next person who will be served is clearly the mother of a large brood; she has too many groceries already, and Sherlock doesn't want to wait while her entire order is rung up.

Lane 2: The second customer in line is a spotty teenaged girl buying chocolate bars and bags of crisps. No. Just no.

Lane 3: Coming up next to the checkout register is a businessman in a hurry to get to an afternoon assignation with the wife of his best friend. He's buying cherry-flavored condoms and checking his watch impatiently every 15 seconds. He won't do at all.

Lane 4: The next person to be served…_no, wait_. Fourth in that same line is a short, sandy-haired man. Standing quite straight. Ex-army. Wondering how he always manages to end up in the slowest-moving queue, but waiting patiently while the clumsy checkout girl fumbles through the order of the customer three in line ahead of him. He is holding a cane, but not using it. Psychosomatic problem, obviously. Even more obviously, ridiculously good-looking. Suddenly Sherlock doesn't care how far back from the register the man is. He is the one. He is perfect. (And Sherlock now has to acknowledge to himself that this might not be just about the milk anymore.)

The first John knows of "Operation: Line Jump" is when a long arm reaches in front of him and a large hand deposits a bottle of milk into his basket, while a second long arm hooks itself gently around his neck and pulls him close before he even knows what's happening.

"There, Muffin," says a deep, velvety voice. "It was so silly of us to forget the milk, of all things." Sherlock beams around behind him at all the people who are glaring at him for cutting in front of them. He nuzzles John's ear and murmurs, "Don't worry, I'll pay you back as soon as we get out of here."

John turns to look at the interloper, intending to blast him into next week — and catches sight of the man's face for the first time. Oh. Well. Hmmm. Truth be told, John loses any inclination to return the milk bottle on the spot. Nevertheless he is still miffed (well, slightly, anyway). He opens his mouth, determined at least to complain about the incursion, but Sherlock bends down to kiss him before he can give the game away. Ignoring all the "Get a room!" comments from behind them, Sherlock and John kiss until the woman in line in front of them (divorced, mother of two, bookkeeper, embezzling from her employer) is packed up and leaves. Then Sherlock empties the basket onto the conveyor belt while John stands next to him in shock.

John's purchases (and the milk) fit easily into two plastic bags. John pointedly hands over the bags for Sherlock to carry. He's not going to be a _total _pushover about this, no sir.

They leave the store together without speaking.

"Did you really have to call me _Muffin_?" John asks once they are outside. His voice lacks heat.

Sherlock's lips twitch. "What do you prefer to be called?"

"John Watson."

"Sherlock Holmes."

They shake hands solemnly, as if they hadn't been snogging like teenagers just moments earlier.

Sherlock says, "If those ready meals are in any way indicative of your diet, you are in serious need of someone to feed you up. Please join me for dinner tonight. Let it be my apology for jumping line on you."

"As long as you still intend to pay me back for the milk, it's a deal," John replies with a totally straight face. He and Sherlock look at each other and bite back laughter.

"I know a great Italian restaurant not far from where I live," Sherlock says casually. "Why don't we stop at my place first to put our groceries in the refrigerator?" John agrees equally casually.

A few blocks later John realises he dropped his cane during their epic snog in line at the grocery store. Sherlock smiles and says, "Leave it. You're never going to need it again anyway."

oooOOOooo

It is at least a year later when John discovers some ready meals way at the back of the freezer. (They've ended up behind a bag of human toes.) He had totally forgotten about them, and they're now well past their use-by date. He shrugs as he bins them.

* * *

Obligatory but boring disclaimer: I don't think I own Sherlock. I don't think anyone thinks I own Sherlock.


End file.
